


An Awakening

by jeathcliff (hlwim)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 04:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17237780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hlwim/pseuds/jeathcliff
Summary: Solf will learn later that the boy’s name is Hans. [pre-canon, dubcon]





	An Awakening

Solf will learn later that the boy’s name is Hans, and that he has a long reputation for cruelty. But in the moment, as he’s seized by the scruff of his neck and shoved into the dark passage between two buildings, Solf only knows by the insignia on the boy’s cap that he’s been accosted by a senior—a _cadet_ , properly, who’s probably soon bound north to shore up the wall or south, to bleed out in wheat fields.

“I don’t like your look,” he snarls, breath puffing hot against Solf’s ear. “You first years need to learn _respect_.”

He twists Solf’s arm hard behind his back, sending a throb of pain up through his shoulder—which is answered, deep in his belly, by a throb of desperate heat. Solf stumbles under the boy’s rough direction, feeling the darkness enrapture, enwrap, _enveil_ them both. There are no windows into the alley. Nowhere a witness could hide. The orange glow of the gas lamps ringing the parade grounds will not penetrate here.

Hans releases him behind a stack of crates—a sharp shove to the small of his back, and he doesn’t let go of Solf’s arm immediately, wrenching his shoulder roughly. Solf barely has time to catch himself from slamming face-first into the wall.

He’d been wondering, idly, what had inspired Hans to pick _him_ , of all people, for this particular liaison, and the answer is suddenly apparent: Hans wraps the long plait of Solf’s hair around his fist and yanks as though meaning to rip each hair from its follicle.

“I thought you were a girl when I saw this,” he says, using the braid as a leash to twist Solf around. “And you might as well be—kneeling in the dirt like a whore.”

Solf can calculate the odds in only a few seconds: Hans is at least a foot taller, maybe forty pounds heavier, broader shoulders, thicker arms. He might lack in agility, but resistance would be met with punishment. How many _girls_ in Hans’s hometown must have made the same calculations? Solf elects to stay silent, watching Hans obediently, hungry to know how this would end.

Hans licks his lips, face only inches from Solf’s—and Solf knows a kiss would result in only a broken jaw, however tempting. He is aching to know what it feels like to press his mouth against another’s, to taste their tongue against his, to feel the scrape of teeth cutting his lips. But that will have to wait for his second lover—this first one is all about efficiency over romance.

“Open your mouth.”

Solf releases a trembling breath as Hans steps back, fumbling with his belt and zipper and buttons. He’s been in locker rooms, in the barracks as everyone changes, and certainly familiarized himself with his own appendage—but seeing Hans pull his half-erect cock from his shorts and hold it like some kind of weapon, Solf is flooded with that heat, that throbbing curling tensing build he knows from nights fantasizing about just this moment, about a man crossing the ground with his length in hand and setting the tip against Solf’s lips.

“You touch me. You bite me. You’re dead. Get it?”

An empty threat. There’s nowhere convenient to hide a body. At most, he’d suffer some broken ribs, but Solf nods anyway, licking his own lips before Hans presses forward with a groan.

Solf’s senses are immediately overwhelmed—the musky smell, the taste of salt and something sharp, the roughness of Hans seizing his head at both temples and roughly fucking his mouth, each time shoving deep enough that Solf gags involuntarily and his throat screams for air. He clenches his fists against his thighs, painfully aware of his own erection straining against his zipper.

Hans moans and sighs, and the only other sound is the sloppy wet thrust of his cock in Solf’s eager mouth. After only a few minutes, Solf is lightheaded, from lack of oxygen or from desperate desire, and he gives a small, begging gasp when Hans pulls out.

For a moment, they’re connected by only a string of saliva, but it snaps, and Hans slaps him hard across the face.

“You’re shit at this,” he snaps. “Get up. Drop your pants.”

 _This_. Solf’s hands shake with thrill and the smallest bit of fear. He’d heard of men doing this sort of thing to each other—had read about it vaguely in a book, once, before his father found the volume beneath his bed and tossed it in the parlor fireplace. The whipping it had earned Solf only fueled the embers burning him up from the inside. Instinctively, Solf braces himself against the wall with his hands, leaving his legs spread shoulder’s-width apart. Gooseflesh erupts across his naked backside as he suddenly aware of Hans looming over him.

“It’ll hurt, but you’ll live,” Hans says. “Keep your mouth shut, or you’ll wake half the camp. And believe me, they’d all want a turn when I’m done.”

Solf’s knees weaken, but he stays upright. He watches the shadows between his legs, as Hans spits on his fingers and rubs them against Solf, missing his target by an inch or so. Hastily wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, Solf can only hope that Hans’s length remains as slick as his own chin.

He has focused his gaze on his own oddly-dangling erection when Hans thrusts in savagely—no warning, no easing, just searing hot and radiating pain that lights flames up his spine. Solf cries out and his arms collapse. Hans’s bruising grip on his thighs is the only thing keeping Solf upright, and he bites his hand hard enough to draw blood.

“That’s it,” Hans hisses, quickly finding a brutal rhythm that seems slower than when he was fucking Solf’s mouth but worse in every possible way. The scrape of Hans inside him does not subside—some childish part of Solf’s mind had thought the experience would be similar to the toilet, but Hans is thick and solid and impossibly hot, hotter than the red stove Solf had touched as a boy.

The immediate pain shifts to an ache after a few minutes—it doesn’t disappear, but the tip of Hans keeps nudging at something deep inside, some wonder of nerves that pushes back on the pain. Having deflated somewhat from the onslaught, Solf watches his own cock harden again, his foreskin pulling back from a head almost purple from the swell of blood. Trembling, unable anymore to calculate the consequences, Solf takes himself in hand, matching his strokes to the pattern Hans hammers against his backside.

“You _like_ this?” Hans demands.

“Yes,” Solf whispers, half-stuttered.

“Fucking deviant.”

They finish in silence, separately. Hans slows, again with no warning, and thrusts deeply two or three times, shuddering and groaning, digging his nails into Solf’s hips. He pulls out fast and staggers backwards, letting Solf drop hard to his knees. Solf can feel something warm and liquid trickling out of him—hoping it isn’t blood and he won’t have to find a nurse who will want too many explanations.

Hans watches as Solf pumps up and down and up and down, and then spills over the dirt between his spread knees.

“You’re sick,” he declares, tucking himself back into his shorts and zipping up. Solf struggles to catch his breath, tremors wracking his body. “I’ll see you at drills, _pervert_.”

He leans down, and for a moment Solf thinks he might actually not survive this encounter—but Hans only reaches for his hair, pulling the long plait back over Solf’s shoulder, almost gentle.

“You better not cut this,” Hans says, close enough to a purr that Kimblee leans in. “I’m gonna need something to hold onto next time.”

And then, whistling, he saunters away. His shadow stretches and stretches, eclipsing the gaslamps’ lights, and the next second he’s gone. Air returns suddenly to Solf’s awareness, and the sharp chill of exposure sets him gingerly attempting to stand. He uses the wall, wincing with every bend and twist to right his clothes. He’ll be lucky to sleep tonight and luckier still if he isn’t too sore to move in the morning.

Lights out has already been called when he reaches his barracks, and he limps into bed without shucking more than his boots. Hans’s threat hums in his memory like a perfect promise.

It was nothing like in his books, nothing even approaching his fevered fantasies. It was messy and painful and degrading—and Solf settles into the darkness with a smile creeping across his face, biting back groans at the press of the mattress against his rising bruises. These trousers are probably ruined, but he can steal a new pair in the morning, when everyone else is off at the showers.

Someone nearby is breathing raggedly, trying half-successfully to muffle the quiet scrape of skin on skin. Lost in his own fantasies—lacking, no doubt, the recent inspiration Solf has been granted. On any other night, he’d be tempted to join his bunkmate in the solitude of self-pleasure, but tonight he crosses his hands over his middle and drifts off, aching with content.


End file.
